WILLIAM TANG IS a fashion designer, a writer and, in his own loosely structured way, a social commentator. Every time a magazine or newspaper wants an instant observation on some zany aspect of Hong Kong life, a reporter rings Tang - and he usually obliges with some pithy comments guaranteed to stir up a small controversy. So he is generally known as the 'bad' or 'naughty' boy of Hong Kong fashion, and everybody in the media loves him.
At the moment, he is embroiled in an extraordinary business cooked up by Next magazine. For reasons best known to itself, Next decided to invite a gentleman disc jockey called Hung Chiu-fung to dress up in his girlfriend's clothes. Hung's girlfriend is Theresa Po Lau, one of Hong Kong's wealthiest women, who auctioned off some of her jewellery last autumn at Christie's. (Perhaps I should point out that I interviewed Po Lau at the time of that sale, when she was still single, and letters offering her companionship arrived in the Postmagazine office almost every morning for about a fortnight afterwards.) Amazingly, Hung allowed himself to be photographed, pouting on pink shagpile, in a variety of Po Lau's outfits, whereupon Next approached some fashion experts for their opinions on the results. Tang's remarks - please note I'm merely paraphrasing here - alluded to the gratification some men receive from dressing up in women's clothing. Not surprisingly, solicitors' letters have been exchanged sternly requesting clarification of these comments, as well as those of the other experts; the Chinese media has been gleefully speculating about the possibility of a long and juicy libel case and, once more, Tang, blinking with pained surprise, has been cast in the role of number one mischief-maker.
I called Tang, whom I know slightly, and suggested we meet to discuss the situation. He turned up for tea at the Mandarin hotel with four members of a Japanese film crew in tow; they have been following him since February to devote a programme to him for a series called Who's Who In Asia. 'He is very unique, a distinguished person,' said one of the crew when I asked why they'd chosen him. Tang helped himself to scones, the cameraman began whirring a metre away and I, pondering the merits of professional discretion, whispered a question about the Next scenario.
'They sent me these pictures through the Internet and they called and asked how I feel about men in women's clothing, you know, joking. They asked me if I wear women's clothes and I said of course. I do it for fun, in the workshop with new samples, and we always laugh and say how ugly they are. We always do that! Nothing wrong! It's no big deal for me, it's not shocking.' This jolly-jape solidarity with Hung may not cut the mustard legally, however, so is he worried about what might happen? 'No way. Why should I be? I made a comment, people have the freedom to react to what they see.' Fair enough. And plenty of people reacted to what they saw in July 1997 when Tang sent his models down the Hong Kong Fashion Week catwalk bedecked in syringes. As a bad-boy gesture, it was a masterpiece of timing: the handover had been, in every sense, a damp squib, but the world's press could yoke newly sinicised Hong Kong, drugs and President Clinton, who had just condemned heroin chic, in a triple whammy of coverage. The range of comment was impressive (it made the front pages in South Africa, for instance) but Tang was upset at its negative tone which, he felt, missed the point he was making about social problems here.
At the time I presumed his offended astonishment was part of the act, but there's such a psychological pattern to his run-ins - spontaneous comments, surprised indignation, wearily reasoned explanations - I now think it was genuine. Somewhere along the line, for some obscure reason and almost despite himself, he always has to make a point. I asked him where he thought this capacity for trouble-making sprang from and he shrugged and said, 'Even in my early teens I would say things against certain people's will - like my father and grandfather. But to my mother and sisters I was the most quiet child in the village.' He still lives in that same village, Ping Shan, in the New Territories, where, as the eldest son, he looks after the Tang clan's various properties. The family has been in Hong Kong for 900 years: that, in this city of yesterday's arrivals, gives him undeniable cachet (the Japanese film crew mentioned it a couple of times) and could explain the inconveniently fearless viewpoint. During recent elections in the New Territories, there was a spot of gang strife. 'And The Sun called me and asked about this fighting in Ping Shan. I said the Government never looked at village elections on the same level as the city, so it allowed space for these gangsters to fight. My fellow villagers were angry, they said I should say words to protect them, I shouldn't say anything negative.' Tang assumed a faintly embarrassed, there-I-go-again expression. He turned 40 on April 20 (Hitler's birthday, as he pointed out, and also the day of the high-school killings in Colorado) so is it time to move on to being a naughty man? 'I never call myself naughty, that's other people. I won't change personality or character. I'm very independent, individualistic. I like being a truthful person.' A little later, he added: 'For some people I'm trouble, but for some people maybe I'm their fortune. My friends say they're lucky to know me.' He paused, then, completely out of the blue, remarked, 'You know, one of the movies I love is The Sound Of Music. I saw it first when I was eight, the last time was two nights ago. It's very sweet. Tacky, to a certain extent. But truthful, to a certain extent. It's life.' I was taken aback by this conversational swerve (but, after all, that is the Tang modus operandi) and asked which was his favourite moment. The Japanese crew had disappeared, and Tang looked dreamy. 'After Maria returns to the convent and the Mother is talking to her and sings Climb Every Mountain, that is the part I like. There are things you have to face, you cannot run away, every day you face all kinds of mountains and streams.' I asked if he kept a box of emotions hidden in his heart. He liked this idea: his whole face brightened up at the thought of such an image. 'A box of scars,' he replied. 'I put them away. Then sometimes when I'm calm, I take it out and look at them and I enjoy the scars.'